Footprints

This is a short story about a man trying to get back to a more primal way of running and ends up hurting himself as we moves deeper into the mountains.

The legendary crying child is an old native legend about a child whose tears have carved the trails through which the Luongo tribe traditionally ran. It is said that when a member of the Luongo became lost the laughter of a child he would guide him to the springs.

�"The crying child: Legends of the Luongo Tribe

 

Footprints

Verloren stared at the pink jagged lines that covered the length of his shins. He could feel the long and thin strips of skin that hung from his leg pulsating as blood began to flow from the fresh cuts on his legs.

“Verloren!” yelled Nicolai as he began to walk cautiously down the steep side of the cliff. “Aline, Sasha, make you to hold on to the rope!”

Verloren could feel his blood trickling down to his socks, soaking the inside of his shoes. He could see his blood dripping from his shredded skin mixing with the gray dirt of the Noelani Mountains in northern Mexico.   

“Can you walk?” asked Nicolai as he reached down for Verloren.

“I don’t know I am cut up pretty bad.”

“Aline has the first aid ready we have to get you out of the mountains.”

Verloren got up slowly and began to take short painful steps back towards the trail. He could feel Nicolai carrying part of his weight.

“We need to get to the top,” said Verloren.

“We need to take you to a hospital,” said Nicolai as he struggled to carry Verloren.

Verloren dropped to his knees; he felt the sting of dirt mixing in with his wounds.

“I think the child won this time,” said Verloren as they reached the edge of the trail where Aline and Sasha were waiting.  

“Next time, I am doing it right, just like the Luongo.”

*****

Verloren woke up and stared at the scratched up calendar hung between posters of people running through mountains. He began to pack all of the supplies that he might need during the 30 mile solo hike through the trails of the Noelani Mountains. Three years had passed since he recklessly ran through the cliffs, three years of surgery, pain medications, and rehab. He walked up to the calendar and crossed out the 19^th of June.

“Are you ok,” asked Nicolai as Verloren walked into the kitchen of their small apartment.

“I’ll be, once I make it to the springs,” said Verloren as he moved his copy of The crying child: Legends of the Luongo Tribe. He began to go over his notes and highlights. During the three years since his accident he had studied and worked on becoming like the legendary runners of the Luongo.

He checked the lacing on the new huarache style running sandals he was wearing, comparing it to a picture on the book, making sure that they were tight enough to keep the thin rubber sole attached to his feet. He took out his 70oz camel back out of the fridge and packed several water bottles and gel packs into a light weight backpack. He was ready. As he ate a large fatty breakfast, 4 eggs, 4 slices of bacon, and vegetable juice mixed in with some flax seeds, Verloren read the note on the map with the trails of the Noelani Mountains that Nicolai had made for him.

“Stay on the highlighter trail, and take a compass,” said Nicolai as he sat next Verloren. “I also marked down some of the landmarks you should be looking for.”

Verloren stared at the red dots scattered over the highlighted trail. While Verloren had been recovering from his injuries Nicolai, Sasha, and Aline had made it to the top of the trail.

“I’ll be back by sundown,” said Verloren as he folded up the map.

*****

The sun was barely rising above the horizon, its light carelessly flowing down the side of the mountains. Verloren drove past an arid landscape filled with dying grey mesquite trees and hard dirt. He arrived at the empty parking area at the base of the Noelani Mountains. The small parking lot was surrounded by abandoned brick outhouses, old picnic tables, and rusty grills. He could feel a cool dry breeze coming from down from the top of the mountain as he walked through the parking lot towards Dragonfly Trail. Deep groves covered the pavement as the dry ground had torn apart the parking lot. Before getting out of the car Verloren tentatively put his foot on the ground; the cool morning pavement soothed and relaxed his bare foot.  He took out his thin pair of sandals and tied them to his foot using a thin strip of nylon that had cut through his heel leaving a thick pink scar on the back of his foot during his first barefoot style run. He made sure to tie it the same style of the Luongo tribe runners. The breeze carried dirt that filled his lungs as he walked towards the sunbaked wooden sign that lead to the Dragonfly Trail. Part of the sign had broken off; the hunter green paint had been scrapped off by the summer heat. Oxidized nails littered the entrance to the trail as the wooden sign had been warped by the heat. He took a long drink out of the first water bottle, he had prepared that morning.

Verloren opened the lid the covered the bed of his old truck and took out his backpack. He counted everything that he might need as he prepared his supplies for the trip. He placed the map on back pocket of his camel back and filled the pockets of his triathlon shirt with several Carbohydrate gel packs and protein bars, making sure to stay lightweight and well supplied. He be began to go over the warm up stretched the physical therapist had given him.

Make sure to leave some water for the drive home, he thought after taking all of the water bottles out of the trunk. He checked his pockets and camel back to make sure that he had everything he needed before locking the leftover supplies and his backpack in the truck.

Verloren walked across the parking he could feel the imperfections of the pavement through his huaraches. This time he was doing it right. He had studied the solitary runners of the Luongo tribe, their traditions and legends. He had learned about their running style, their traditions and believes about running, he had practiced using the sun as a compass and the use of landmarks to keep track of the trails.

The Luongo’s have been running in huaraches like this for hundreds of years, he thought while he began to jog as the pavement turned into a narrow dirt trail surrounded by dry mesquite trees.

With every stride he felt the dry ground cracking beneath his feet, he could feel dry leaves and twigs scraping and breaking apart through his sandals. He kept running towards the spring’s chasing after the legendary crying child that helped lost and injured Luongo runners. After the first hour, the blinding morning sun began to heat up the ground. Verloren stopped at the top of a small hill. He could see the dried out outline of the Dragonfly River cutting between the mountains. Before he started to run again he took out his first gel pack from one the back pockets of his triathlon shirt and drained his first water bottle tossing it out.

Verloren drove his knees forward; he kept count of each one of his strides, and kept the right cadence as he ran towards the top of The Noelani Mountains in the middle of the Mexican Sierras. He could feel the scars on his shins stretching, sending numbing spikes of pain up his legs. The sun was burning through his skin, searing each individual muscle fiber. He kept running, slowly nearing the end of the 15 mile jog and 1,646 feet climb from the base of the mountains to the springs of The Crying Child the source of the Dragonfly River. Nearly 4 hours had passed since he began to run up the trail, every stride took him closer to the cliffs where he had gotten his scars. As he approached the start of the Dead Man’s Bed cliffs he took out his second coconut flavored carbohydrate gel pack. He kept count of his strides as he sucked the whole pack down before drinking down the last half of his second water bottle. He still had one gel pack left and the camel back filled with water. He began to pace down his cadence as the trail narrowed from four to less than three feet. He landed each stride carefully; he made sure that each foot landed safely as he passed the 25ft drop where he had fallen. He slowed down to a cautious walk.

Torn pieces of cloth were hanging from the mesquite trees, shrubs, and wild agave. He could see the slight edge of the cliff where he had taken a misstep before rolling down the steep mountain.  Nicolai, Sasha, and Aline were barely able to help him; they had carried Verloren back to the base of the mountain, sacrificing their water and food supplies to keep him alive. This time he was alone, for a year he had prepared to make the same spiritual journey that the Luongo runners used to make. He had studied the maps, landmarks, and the Luongo. Tiny pebbles rolled down the cliff as the front of his sandal scraped bits of dirt off the trail and into his Huarache. He sat at the edge and rested as he dripped some water and rubbed down his tightening scars. He thought about Nicolai, he wondered if Nicolai thought he wasn’t ready for this trip.   Verloren stood back up and took off his handheld bottle holder and tossed it over the edge toward the plants that still had torn strips of his clothing. There was no point in carrying an empty water bottle. He grabbed the map out of his camel back and tracked the rout down with his finger. He started running. He felt lighter. His strides began to lengthen as he sped up his cadence nearly sprinting out of the cliffs into the steep trail that cut through the mountains.

Slow down; Keep your cadence, count, 90 strides per second. He thought as He was still 3 miles away from the springs.

 His camel back began to feel lighter; the straps were no longer weighing down his shoulder. In the 3 miles he had left he was about to climb 600 feet. He shortened his strides and sped up his cadence, expert Luongo techniques for conserving energy during climbing runs. He could feel the heat from the rocks drying his sweat. His shirt began to smother him as sweat was starting to drip from the seams. He stopped near a flat stone and laid the shirt out to dry, weighting it down with several small rocks.

Each finger is between 15 and 20 minutes, he thought as he lifted his arm towards the sun, his hand bent so that his palm was facing him. He watched his shirt dry making sure to keep track of how long it was taking it to dry. After 15 minutes he picked up his shirt and took another sip of water out of his camel back, as he started to jog the last mile towards the only source of water in the mountains.

Verloren could feel the water in his pack warming up with each mouthful he swallowed. He arrived at the Stone of the Crying Child. He was standing on the dried out remains of the Dragonfly River, there were small bones and half decayed animals.  Verloren stood there in complete silence; he could no longer feel his own sweat. He began to run towards the distant smell of stagnant water that filled the top of the mountain. Verloren could feel the ground crack underneath his sandals with each stride. He jogged past a bloated deer carcass, the smell overwhelmed him. Verloren used some of the water in his pack to rinse out the taste of half-digested gel pack and protein bars out of his mouth. He arrived at the base of a large moss covered obelisk that had once been the only know source of the mountain’s water. He could taste the dryness and bile that filled his mouth as the sun reached its peak. It had taken him over 4 hours to reach the sacred obelisk of the Luongos. Verloren took the last sip of water from his pack as he studied the map before he began his jog back towards the desolate parking lot, and the extra supplies he had left in his truck.

The sun could no longer to pull sweat from Verloren’s forehead as he swirled the industrial coconut flavored gel inside his dry mouth. He could hear every step beating rhythmically against the hard mountainous ground. The trail began to widen as Verloren ran into a large plateau. The taste of dry salty sweat began to overwhelm his tongue as thin white salt lines appeared at the edge of his lips. He sat on a flat rock and took out the map as the hot stone was blistering his skin. He could see heat waves rising in the horizon. Two hours had passed since he left the dried out spring. Verloren studied the map trying to find the exact landmarks.

From the plateau you will see a mountain that looks like a face. Verloren look around him all the mountains look the same, large grey slabs of rock.

The Luongo don’t need maps, thought Verloren as he dropped the map.

 The wind had died out and the sun kept heating up the earth. Verloren licked the salt of his chapped lips, before swallowing the last drops of saliva in his mouth. Verloren dropped his empty camel back next to the map and began to jog towards the horizon. His skin was to cracking, little streaks of blood cooling his sunburns. The scars on his legs were blistered, he kept jogging.

Four hours had passed since he left the springs. His legs were barely able to support his weight. Verloren kept moving through the trails towards the bottom of the mountains, each step taking him closer to the base. He stopped to rest; he took off his sandals, and watched as blood began to trickle out from crisscrossing blisters. The nylon straps had torn through his skin.

Verloren retied the sandals, the nylon string digging deeper into his flesh through the fresh wounds. He began to sprint aimlessness trying to find a puddle, pond, of stagnant pool of poisoned water, trying to find any water. The wind picked up, as the sun began to hide behind the tallest peaks of the mountains. Verloren heard the laughter of a small child echoing through the mountains.

I am Luongo; the child will guide me! he shouted as he ran towards the mirroring streaks of heat rising on the horizon.

He sprinted towards the wind, through narrow trails, across desolate plateaus. He could feel small pebbles cutting through his huaraches. Verloren kept running. He began to wobble his way across plains of the Noelani Mountains towards the echoing laughter of the crying child. Verloren reach the edge of the plateau, he could see the outlines of a small stream at the bottom of a canyon. The thin silvery reflection stunned Verloren. He could see a steep, rocky trail on the side of cliff. He began to slowly and carefully climb down. The blood flowing from the bottom of his feet left behind a thin layer of blood with every step he took. He began to speed up his pace as the smell of fresh water filled every breath with hope. Once again Verloren heard the wind echoing the laughter of a small child. Filled with yearning for water Verloren pushed hard against the side wall of the cliff and jumped off the trail. He could feel the cool evening wind on his face as he fell the last 10 feet towards the dry out stream. He landed hard on his feet before rolling over his ankles. Verloren could feel blood flowing from the newly opened scars on his shins. His blood was starting to pool around the deep footprints that Verloren had left when he landed. Verloren closed his eyes; he could taste a mixture of salt and blood on his lips. The canyon filled with shadows as the sun settled behind the mountains, Verloren laid there listening as the cool wind brought him the echoing cries of a small child.

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

Author's Note

I would like some input on the dialogue. I would also like some input on the story, what works and what doesn't, which scenes seem forced, are there any characters that should be removed or that are not needed. Any feedback even negative feedback is welcomed.